


Red

by planet_plantagenet



Series: Dave and Karkat (and the Mayor) on the Meteor [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Can Town (Homestuck), Colors, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meteorstuck, POV Second Person, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planet_plantagenet/pseuds/planet_plantagenet
Summary: Karkat has a lot of feelings about his blood color. Dave helps him with it, in a way.Happy 6/12!





	Red

You don’t like the color red. Looking back on it, it should’ve been obvious, even to those who didn’t know anything about your blood. For example, you’ve always expressed distaste for the red cloth decorating the outside of your hive, put there by your younger self who didn’t know any better. Sometimes you wanted to tear it all down. But your paranoia got the better of you—what would others think of you, spending all that time and effort removing parts of your hive just because you didn’t like the color? It was a stupid excuse, but your think pan wouldn’t let it go.

You hated your planet. How could you not—it was covered in an ocean of blood, forever reminding you of your mutation. Not to mention all the “Knight of Blood” bullshit. Like you were supposed to be  _ proud _ of your blood or something. Of course, that wasn’t what it meant, but it still felt like a callout.

And you hated Dave Strider. Well. Less of him as a person, and more of what he stood for—waltzing into your life a couple months ago in his goddamn candy red god tier pajamas—how could you not be just a little pissed off?

You’re secretly a little glad you never got to god tier. Apparently the Blood aspect’s color scheme is red too. Not as bright red, but… it would make you uncomfortable to have to wear  _ that _ all the time.

You tell yourself that there’s no reason to be so fucking anxious about it anymore. Everyone here either knows your blood color already, or doesn’t care about it. Worst-kept secret ever.

But now, as you sit in the middle of Can Town, one fist closed around a stick of Skaia-blue chalk, rummaging through a pile of discarded cans, you realize two things.

First, you’re not actually sure that the humans ever found out your blood color. At least, you never directly told them. They’ve probably figured out it out by now, what with all the things you’ve been through together, but you can’t help but retain a shred of irrational hope that your former-secret hasn’t reached their hear ducts yet.

Second, would it even matter to them? Dave has red blood, as red as his clothes and his text. The Mayor does too—you remember feeling a sudden, instinctive kinship with him when his dead, bleeding body was unceremoniously dumped onto the top of the meteor. Right now, you are sitting in a room with a carapacian and a human, and both of them share your blood color. A sweep ago, you wouldn’t believe such a thing was possible.

Your searching hand closes around something sharp. You snap out of it and pull your hand away, but the skin catches and your palm rips open. A rush of red blood and pain spills onto the floor.

_ “FUCK!” _ you scream, along with various other obscenities. How fucking ironic.

“Karkat?”

You instinctively hide your bleeding hand, pressing it against the ground and sitting on it. That just makes it sting even more. A wave of familiar panic washes over you.

“None of your business, Strider,” you yell in the direction of your worried companion—but it’s too late; he’s already headed in your direction, stepping over all the carefully balanced can buildings.

“Sounds like my business. You okay?” His gaze is on your hand—well, the place where your hand is, which is under your ass because you’re sitting on it, meaning he’s staring at your ass—actually never mind, that isn’t something you want to think about right now, or ever.

With your free hand, you angrily gesture at the can trash heap. “We need to get rid of these. Someone could seriously hurt themself on a sharp can edge.”

Dave looks amused. “Only if they’re enough of a dumbass to stick their hand straight into the middle of the pile.”

“I thought there might be some undamaged cans—!”

“In the discard pile.”

Thanks to the pain and your embarrassment, you can’t think of anything wittier to say than “Fuck you, Strider!”

Dave’s face grows serious, and he kneels down in front of you. “Let’s see your hand.”

You pause for a second, then slowly remove your hand from under your ass. No hiding this time. The extended contact with the floor has smeared blood and dirt all over your palm. It looks horrible. You think you might be sick.

“Damn.” Dave’s eyebrows rise, and he leans in a little closer (wow he’s really close now, why did your heart just speed up) to get a good look. “Didn’t realize the cans in there were that sharp.”

“Can you get me a towel or something,” you mutter. Fuck, you sound like Equius.

He looks at you. “A towel’s not gonna help. You’ve gotta wash it.”

“Fine. Where?” You realize with a sinking feeling that the nearest bathroom is halfway across the meteor. Makes bathroom breaks a pain in the ass. Luckily for Dave, his chosen respiteblock is fairly close to Can Town—oh no.

Dave shrugs. “I guess you could use the bathroom in my room.”

“No,” you say.

“What.”

“Your bathroom is probably a fucking hellhole. I bet it stinks even more than you do.”

“Shut up, my bathroom is a goddamn sauna compared to the filthy abomination you call your ‘respiteblock’—”

“You’ve never even been to my block!”

“Or have I?”

You don’t know what that means, and you don’t want to. Meanwhile, your hand is becoming more unsightly by the minute. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

The two of you say a quick goodbye to the Mayor, and leave Can Town. Fortunately, the halls of this part of the meteor are empty. Even so, you hold your bloody hand protectively to your chest. No way are you gonna let anyone else see it.

On the way, Dave mutters something that sounds a lot like “man I can’t believe I’m taking an alien boy to my bedroom, how fucking gay.” You know just enough about humans to know what he means by that, and you feel your cheeks burn. Why does he have to make everything so awkward. You’re just going to clean your cut, and leave.

Predictably, Dave’s block is pretty messy. There’s a lot of random shit here and there, most notably objects that look like fried jpegs that he alchemized a while ago. To your surprise, it actually smells kinda nice in here. Maybe that’s because Dave smells kinda nice. Actually, no, what are you thinking, Dave just smells like a weird human. Get a grip on yourself, man.

“Well, it doesn’t stink,” you tell him. “But that’s the only thing I’m giving you. Nothing else.”

“Fair enough.” Dave pulls open the door to his bathroom and gestures you towards the sink. Thankfully, the room is mostly devoid of weird human toiletries.

You turn on the sink and feel the cool water running over your hand. Your cut stings, but other than that it feels good to clean it.

It’s a second before you realize that Dave is standing next to you.

“What the fuck, dude. Couldn’t I have some privacy? Or is my bright candy red blood just too much for you to resist?”

It’s a second before he responds. “You know… I don’t like seeing blood as much as the next guy, but I’m glad your blood is at least a normal color.”

You freeze. The sink keeps running, water washing over your now-clean hands.

He continues, oblivious. “It might’ve been a lot more gross if you were, like, Vriska or something. Blue blood is kind of cool in theory, but not something I’d want to see up close, you know?”

You finally turn off the sink and stare at him. His shades stare back at you. “You know my blood isn’t  _ normal, _ right?”

“Sure, the whole mutation thing. I dunno, it’s normal to me.”

The cut on your palm has begun to seep again. You grab a wad of toilet paper and press it against your hand. “I don’t think you get it. No other trolls have this blood color. I’m a social outcast. You don’t even—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Wow, way to be culturally sensitive.”

Dave doesn’t reply. He rummages around in the cabinet under the sink, finally producing a box of different-sized bandages, and watches as you patch up your injury.

When he speaks, his face is tilted slightly downwards; he isn’t looking at you anymore. “Uh. Karkat.”

“What.”

“I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but, uh, we may have more in common than you think.”

Your heart inexplicably accelerates. “Yeah?”

He takes a deep breath and removes his shades, squinting against the sudden brightness. His eyes are as red as his clothes, pupils the same color as Terezi’s. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him without his shades before, but not this close—and damn, you definitely did not make the connection before. You’ll be the first to admit you don’t know everything about humans, but you’re about 99% sure that no human has eyes quite like Dave’s. They’re blinding. And also strangely enticing. You can’t look away.

Dave blinks, and looks at the floor, and the moment is gone. His cheeks are pink.

“Is, uh, is your hand better now?”

You’d almost forgotten about it. You hold up your bandaged palm. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Wanna go back to Can Town?”

“Yes. Please.” You shove him out of the way (hand lingering maybe a half second too long on his shoulder) and leave quickly, eager to get out of this room that smells like Dave.

As you’re walking back, you realize that you might be the only person who Dave’s ever voluntarily looked at without his shades. The thought chills you. And also excites you. But you push that reaction deep into the nooks and crannies of your think pan, where it belongs.


End file.
